Roaches pause at closet doors;
Mice speed past my bed.
Centipedes race up my walls;
Mosquitoes buzz my head.
I do not think them evil
As they gather 'round in pairs.
I just pretend I'm Noah
When I say my nightly prayers.
I grew up
listening to radio dramas,
reading books,
making my own music
on the front porch
summer evenings
being taught
the power of imagination,
which was well and good,
except those spooky
moonless nights
on the way to our outhouse
when my flashlight went out
and I felt my way in the dark
for holes in the plant seat
with imagination already
primed to overflowing.
Joey bought an ice cream cone
And listened to it melt.
It was a sad and lonely sound
And warmer than it felt.
It sounded much like winter
When the grass is dead and gone,
And frozen feet are crunching on
Vanilla ice cream lawn.
It felt as warm as August
When taste buds start to scream,
Then listen to their echo:
"I really love ice cream!"
Joey started licking it,
And soon it disappeared.
He listened for his taste buds
And giggled when they cheered.
Edgar Allen Poe said, "Forget Eldorado's gold;
I'm sold
on baseball. What bigger thrill
Than to play in Mudville?"
So Poe
took a toe-
hold in the batter's box
and watached the knuckler flutter toward him
(foolish knuckler, a silly thing,
like a raven with a broken wing).
Heart beating wildly,
he took his best swing.
His bat whooshed like a pendulum
through the dusk's heavy air
and smashed the ball. Fair!
Embittered, Poe mourns,
for although he hit with tremendous force,
he was robbed of a homer . . .
by Casey, of course.
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